


From the depths

by Boudoir_Writer



Series: Never let you go [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gen, Graphic, Grief, Iron Maiden aftermath, Knives, M/M, Murder, Nicolò di Genova incurably dark romantic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not major plot point though, Skinning, Torture, dark!Nicky, it should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: It’s cold, always cold and wet in this god forsaken land, and the stonewalls of the little cottage they broke into barely hold out the chill. He leans closer to the fire. The heat licks at his skin but he can’t stop shivering. Yusuf has never been so cold before, bones brittle with it.Not as cold as you’d be at the bottom of the ocean,his mind whispers and he wishes that the cold would make him numb, at least.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Never let you go [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198307
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	From the depths

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment in the psychopath!Nicky universe. Please note these aren’t in chronological order, should still make sense though!
> 
> This was a pain to write, but wouldn’t leave me alone. And there’s no sex. I know, wtf?
> 
> As always mind the tags. Check the end notes for further info on triggers (you’ll get spoilers though). Or find me on tumblr @boudoirwriter
> 
> Last but not least a MASSIVE thank you to all those lovely people that left comments and kudos on the first installment. I was not expecting such a warm reaction to this brainchild of mine, I’m touched, really!

Andromache is finally asleep - or unconscious.

_ Semantics _, Nicolò would scoff, but he wasn’t the one to sneak the poppy tincture in her drink after days and days of watching her grow increasingly unmoored.

Only the quiet rising and falling of her chest tells Yusuf that he hasn’t accidentally overdosed her.

_ We already lost Quynh_, he told Nicolò as he prepared the concoction.  _We can’t lose her too_. As if Nicolò cares for explanations, as if he would ever judge Yusuf’s actions. No, that will be Andromache when she wakes up, he reminds himself with a grimace. Yusuf will deal with the fallout then.

For now he brushes the hair off her face and tucks her blanket up to her chin. She looks pale and bruised - diminished. 

Yusuf rubs at the corner of his eye, the skin there pulled taut, itchy. He can’t remember the last time he slept and he wonders idly if he should have kept some of the tincture for himself. With a weary sigh he tidies up his things and goes to join Nicolò in front of the fire, where he is sharpening his knife. The same one he used to remove the skin off the priest’s arm, the way you would peel an apple. Slow and cautious, as not to cut any arteries, minimize the bleeding.

“It wouldn’t do for you to die before you tell me what I want to know,” Nicolò had explained to the man strapped tight to the table, patient like a teacher instructing a particularly dull pupil. 

The priest had pleaded and screamed and retched as Nicolò exposed sinew and muscle, picked them apart.

“Oh god,  _ please _ \- I don’t know! No one knows.” He had garbled. “No one made it back. The ship  \- the ship _ sank _ .”

Yusuf didn’t stay to hear the rest, to hear the chocked gurgle when Nicolò cut the man's throat. He rushed after Andromache, held her as she howled her grief, her hopelessness.

“You must wish it was me,” Nicolò says, not looking up from the drag of steel on whetstone.

Yusuf licks his lips and doesn’t answer. He crouches in front of the fire, adds a log to it. It’s cold, always cold and wet in this god forsaken land, and the stonewalls of the little cottage they broke into barely hold out the chill. He leans closer to the fire. The heat licks at his skin but he can’t stop shivering. Yusuf has never been so cold before, bones brittle with it.  _ Not as cold as you’d be at the bottom of the ocean, _ his mind whispers and he wishes that the cold would make him numb, at least.

He should say yes, yes it should be you, because it would be easier, it would be  _ right _ . But he can’t, God help him, he can’t bring himself to lie. Truth is, Yusuf wouldn’t trade Nicolò for Quynh, he  _ would not _ . He stares at the flames lapping at the dried wood and wonders what that says about him.

“It’s all right,” Nicolò offers, the scrap of the blade unfaltering. Yusuf can’t tell if Nicolò is upset, he never can. Maybe upset it’s just another human ailment that evades him, like guilt and regret. Yusuf has always pitied him for his lack of empathy, but lately, lately he’s envious. Lately he wishes Nicolò could rip the feelings out of him the way he can rip a heart out of a ribcage.

“If the choice was between the two of us, I’d want it to be me, too,” Nicolò muses, and Yusuf pushes away from the fireplace with a frown. He turns to watch Nicolò lift the blade to inspect the edge. His eyes dance with the flames, in a warmth of yellow and orange that does not belong to him. When he speaks next his tone is light and measured.

“For if it were you, I would squeeze every last drop of blood from this earth and turn the ocean red with it,” he says. “So that even lost to its depths, you would know, Yusuf. You would know that I was looking for you.” 

Yusuf’s heart is too loud in his chest, in his neck. Out of breath, he can only meet Nicolò’s unsettling eyes over the perfect edge of the blade until the swell of unnamed emotion subsides.

“Nicolò,” he huffs, struggling to get his heartbeat under control. “Always so dramatic.”

He expects one of those minute twists of lips, a rebuke at his choice of words, but Nicolò is just watching him, unblinking, with an intensity that burns stronger than the fire at his back.

Yusuf swallows, looks away first. “I -“ he licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “I, uh - appreciate the sentiment, though.”

Nicolò stares at him for a moment longer. Then he nods once, either satisfied at the sharpness of the blade or at whatever he can read on Yusuf’s face. It’s hard to tell. Yusuf shakes his head and turns back towards the fire. The scraping of steel on whetstone resumes, soothing, and for the first time since they lost Quynh to the ocean and watched Andromache sink into her grief, he breathes a little easier, feels a little warmer.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger  
> Nicolò tortures a priest to get intel on Quynh’s fate. It’s pretty graphic, but short.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, let me know. More coming soon. 😘


End file.
